


Her Back

by PoisonKisses



Category: Gotham City Sirens (Comics), Poison Ivy (Comics)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonKisses/pseuds/PoisonKisses
Summary: Ivy knows someday she'll have to give her up.





	Her Back

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick piece to warm up before I go back to novel writing.

Ivy loved her back.

She’d make Harley lie on her tummy, unmoving, while she explored the little blonde’s skin. Sometimes with her fingers--warmed massage oil and slow, strong kneading--and sometimes with her tongue--slow, sensual kisses, nuzzles, making her lie perfectly still while she ran her tongue up the line of Harley’s spine, starting with the top of the cleavage of her buttocks and ending at the nape of her neck. She loved trailing kisses across Harley’s shoulder blades. Sometimes she’d apply lipstick in order to leave green kiss marks across the pale canvas of Harley’s flesh--a little story told in lip-shaped pictographs, like the sexiest, most feminine Lascaux cave paintings ever.

Sometimes she’d suck hickies into the skin, little purple marks of ownership. They were temporary, transient, like Harley herself. Little stolen moments where Ivy could lie to herself that Harley was hers--that Ivy could have this. It wasn’t that Harley was unwilling. One word and Harley would BE hers, all hers. They could be happy.

Couldn’t they?

Ivy knew it could never be. She’d never be what Harley truly needed. She could never give Harley the priority, the focus, that she needed. Ivy would always be Poison Ivy, a woman with a duty and a mission, and it never left her mind that she’d watch Harley grow old. Sick. Eventually Harley would die.

Ivy tried not to think about it. She tried to live in the now with Harley. She enjoyed her stolen moments. Sometimes she even fooled herself into forgetting.

Sometimes she’d let Harley fall asleep and then she’d lie close to the other woman. Harley was petite next to her, small, and when she slept she looked so fragile to Ivy. She’d press against Harley’s back and hold her close, listening to her breathing, or she’d reach around and hold her hand against Harley’s chest, between her breasts, and feel her heartbeat. Harley was alive, and that life meant so much to Ivy. Harley was her humanity then, a fragile thing sleeping in a fetal position, scarred but still there, and Ivy was afraid of losing her, losing it.

When Harley was deep asleep, Ivy’d put her lush lips to Harley’s ear and tell her. Say things to her the little gymnast would never hear while awake, confessions of Ivy’s feelings, her fears, her vulnerabilities. Ivy needed to be Harley’s rock. Indestructible. Unbeatable. Terrifying and exhilarating. Ivy understood that--accepted that role.

Sometimes Ivy fucked Harley.

It was a crude way to say it, and Ivy hated profanity, but sometimes a word was used for effect, and what Ivy did to her couldn’t be described any other way. Harley was a squirmer and a wriggler, so Ivy’d bind her wrists and ankles, leaving her on her tummy, spreadeagled and helpless. Harley loved it.

There was no escaping Harley’s kinky tastes. That _animal_ had gotten to her early, and normal, simple vanilla sex just bored her. Ivy’d learned that at least a little danger, maybe a little pain, turned Harley on, and that? That, Ivy could be for her. Wicked, vicious Poison Ivy was a persona she’d developed for years, after all. It’s what Batman and his merry band of ‘heroes’ expected out of her, and at a very young age Ivy’d learned the best way to get what you wanted out of men was to present them with what they expected. All she had to do was bind Harley’s wrists and then purr into her ear that she was helpless and Harley was soaking the sheets. Ivy played that role well, and to be fair, she didn’t know for sure if that wasn’t the real her and the beautiful scientist who wanted to cling to her humanity and save the world wasn’t the persona. Maybe she really was the monster?

She kept it lowkey, wickedly seductive, not murderous. Long ago, when Harley’d turned on her, suckerpunched her, manipulated her, betrayed her, she’d gone after Harley, to kill her. She’d burst into Harley’s cell, her rage a living thing coiled in her gut because the one person she'd opened up to, the one person she'd called a friend, had used that weakness against her, just as she knew would happen...but then she’d seen the naked fear on Harley's face, seen her screaming for the guards, tears in her eyes--it hit her.

Harley was afraid of her. 

Deep down, beneath the jester and the makeup and the insanity, Harley was terrified, and that’s why Ivy chose to forgive her. She'd seen in Harley’s eyes the same fear she had of _him_ , and that had been like being dunked in ice water, immediately ending her rage.

Never again would she make Harley afraid.

She’d lay with her head pillowed on Harley’s back, perpendicular, reach around between Harley’s legs, and use her long, clever fingers to force orgasm after orgasm on the little jester. Harley called it ‘sweet torture’ time, because, unable to fight back or resist or even move out of the way, she was helpless, screaming in pleasure, until she was slick with sweat and exhausted.

Ivy liked to taste her skin afterward, kissing her back lovingly and tasting the delicious, salty flavor of her perspiration.

Sometimes she’d play with Harley’s other entrance. She liked to get at the end of the bed and use a finger, smirking when Harley would writhe in her bonds, body twisting in an effort to get away, or to get closer, Ivy didn’t think even Harley knew for sure. She’d stretch Harley, use her mouth and tongue on Harley’s pink little slit at the same time, leaving the other girl drowned in sensation. Ivy hadn’t had body hair of any kind since her transformation, and she was fascinated by Harley’s trimmed patch of pubic hair, shaped into her diamond, but to be honest, she was also fascinated by the fine little hairs all over Harley’s skin.

She was fascinated with Harley.

It was almost clinical, really. She was a laboratory scientist, after all, and sometimes she’d find herself exploring Harley’s causality. If I touch this, Harley does that. If I kiss her here, Harley moans exactly this way.

She loved Harley’s moans. They were higher pitched than Ivy’s, more honest, Harley couldn’t have faked it for her life. When she was arching her back, gripping her bonds, head thrown back, eyes closed, breathlessly screaming, she never used one of her nicknames. No Pammies or Reds. When she was cumming, Harley always called her Ivy.

Sometimes she’d lay with her head pillowed on Harley’s buttocks, slowly tracing the light scars on Harley’s back with a fingertip while the other girl lay dozing, exhausted from their play. They were faded now, almost gone completely, but Ivy could still see them—still see the marks that _meat_ had put on Harley. As always, the unfamiliar guilt would surface, trickling up from deep inside her. If she’d acted sooner, how many of these scars wouldn’t be here? How much pain and fear had Harley suffered in the grip of her addiction to him because Ivy’d been too afraid to act for fear of losing her, telling herself that Harley needed to do it herself to be free of him.

Harley hadn’t even flinched when Ivy broke his neck, twisting his head around with her bare hands until the wet snap, the choking off of his laughter. He’d defecated on himself in the process, and she remembered that fear when she turned to Harley, expecting anger, or grief. 

Harley’d stared at her, and then deadpan said, “Man, he was full of shit.” Ivy’d laughed so hard she had tears in her eyes. Then Harley was hugging her, excited she’d finally gotten a full laugh out of her.

She didn’t legitimately laugh often, and Harley was the only one who ever seemed to get her to. That wasn’t a bad thing.

But the best thing about Harley’s back, the part they both loved during their stolen moments together, was when she’d swat Harley’s bare ass, causing a giggle, and say, “Ok, flip over. I want to play with the front now.”

Harley would, biting her red, pouty lower lip, eyes shining up at her with so much love, more love than Ivy deserved, she knew. Trust. Love. Acceptance.

Ivy knew she didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve any of it. She was a freak, a monster, an unclean thing with blood dripping from her hands. She didn’t deserve Harley, and knew someday she’d see Harley move on, find someone the little jester deserved. Someone who could unconditionally love her and be loved in return. A human. Someone she could have a family with. 

Truly, legitimately, Ivy wanted that for Harley. Fate had forced her into the role of monster, but it wasn’t too late for Harley. She knew eventually she’d have to give Harley up.

But when Harley flipped over and Ivy was running her hands over Harley’s sleek, muscular body, cupping her little breasts with the rock hard, pink nipples, seeing the laughter in her eyes, sliding her hand down and over Harley’s warm, wet sex and kissing that grin...well...Ivy just wasn’t ready to give her up.

Not yet, anyway.


End file.
